Donkey Bay, aka Skeleton Bay, Namibia. Swimming out there is terrifying. You start way up the point, then get your ass handed to you while trying to break through. By the time you make it out, the rip has pulled you halfway down the beach, and you’re trying to figure out how to get back in. You’re drifting so fast towards the end of the bay, which is where all that fury ends in a closeout easily capable of drowning you. I spent the whole day swimming out and then walking back up the beach, a mile-long lap. I didn’t even get a surf action photo. The surfers are running it, too—sometimes without getting a wave. The sound of these waves, and their underwater concussion, is harrowing—a loud, terrifying grind. Hearing it chokes you up a bit. I saw some freaky stuff there. One wave had a curl of only a few inches, but its lip was six feet thick and a shade of blue I’d never seen before. My blood pressure still rises recalling the panic of entry and exit.
*
Luke Saranah and I went up to the Arctic Circle for a surf contest. One night while camping, the whole sky lit up with aurora borealis. Coming from the opposite hemisphere, it was the coolest thing we’d ever seen. We’d had a few whiskeys and started talking about how bright the lights were and how well we could see, so we decided to go night surfing. The lights were still going wild after we got out, and we nearly froze staring at the sky while strolling back to camp. Around 3:00 in the morning, we stumbled across a group of local Norwegian fellas who’d set up a sauna tent. They were pretty much naked and yelling at us in their native tongue. We had no idea what they were saying, but we figured out that they were psyched that we went surfing and that they wanted us to join them. They dragged Luke into the sauna, sat him down, and handed him a beer. I clearly remember seeing him in the doorway with a look on his face, like, Save me! But I was tired and cold, and continued back to camp. It was so funny—he was like a prisoner abducted by crazy Vikings in the wee morning hours, only to be shown a good time.
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Luke Saranah, Southern Australia. We drove for 26 hours nonstop to get to this wave. It was like Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, just blazing through the desert while the sun seemingly rose and set at weird hours. Around sunset, we pulled up to the last service station before hitting the Nullarbor Plain. The fellow behind the counter told us not to drive at night. We asked why. “Well, it’s dark, and there are so many kangaroos.” We were confused—kangaroos aren’t too bad—so we took off. Big mistake. As soon as the sun went down, there were thousands of kangaroos on the road. For safety, we drove 30 miles per hour for 8 hours. It was nerve-racking. Big road trains pulling five trailers would fly past us doing 60. They have spotlights that you can see coming from a half-hour away—just a dot on the horizon. The truckers don’t give a fuck—they plow through the kangaroos, leaving carcasses and long skids of blood behind them. It’s like Mad Max. That was my shift behind the wheel, slamming the brakes every two seconds to dodge kangaroos and war rigs. We should’ve listened to the station hand and waited until morning to cross the Null.
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I live in Denmark for half the year, and obviously can’t surf much while I’m there. So, water polo was the first thing that popped into my mind as a substitute. Having never played the sport before, I couldn’t even throw the ball, didn’t know my ass from my elbow, but I kept coming. I didn’t get acknowledged by the team for the first year. When they realized I wasn’t going to give up, they let me play in a few games. Thankfully, they tolerated me showing up to train with them. It’s been keeping me fit between surf trips. Photographing that dynamic and violent team sport is a pretty big contrast to shooting surfing, but there are parallels in terms of holding your breath at a high heart rate. Also, I’ve never been more fit.
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Jack Robinson, Western Australia. Us poor photographers are always staring straight into the glare, and this spot will burn your eyeballs out of your skull in the afternoon when it turns onshore. Robbo’s always going to give you something, so I lined up from the back with an interesting focus, just to give my corneas a rest.
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A massive storm front hit Western Australia just two days before my family and I were leaving for Denmark. The year before, I’d bought a 10-foot twin-fin shaped by Mick Mackie—which I planned to surf as a gun when it got big. I wasn’t going to miss the opportunity. My friend Mitch Burman put his helmet on and said, “Let’s go,” and started walking down the stairs. At that point, I was a bit scared. We played it safe by catching a few in the middle of the bay before paddling outside. We were sitting really far out in deep water, near where there’s been a shark fatality. Despite all the terror, we were getting some good waves, my board was performing, and we were having a great session. Mitch went in, leaving me out there by myself just as the sun set. The swell jacked up, and endless sets kept rolling in. No matter how hard I paddled, I couldn’t get over them. I had this 10-foot board strapped to my leg, and I was diving under wave after wave. It was nearly dark, and it was becoming a worst-case scenario. If I kept paddling out to sea, I’d get dragged down the coast toward even more dangerous bombies. I ended up almost past the shark alarm indicators—way out to sea. Panic began rising in my throat. I was thinking, Fuck, I’m about to disappear off the Earth. So I grabbed the board, turned it to shore, caught the biggest wall of whitewash I’ve ever seen, and held on for dear life as I rode in prone. On my way in, I passed these guys getting rag-dolled at North Point. We locked eyes for a second, and I could tell they were thinking, Where the fuck did you come from, man? Anyway, I got my adrenaline rush—it’s lasted me until now, I reckon.
For more, check out Pearsall’s portfolio, “Northwest of Northpoint,” with an introduction by Sean Doherty, in TSJ 34.4.
